


pick it all up and start again

by neptune (poseidon)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Recovery, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:08:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poseidon/pseuds/neptune
Summary: It’s simple physics – ice melts.Mycroft really should’ve known better.





	

It’s simple physics – ice melts.

Mycroft really should’ve known better.

* * *

He doesn’t leave his home, once he’s finally back there. Of course it’s not an acceptable coping mechanism, nor is it a viable solution to any of the numerous problems he is now facing, but –

But he just. Doesn’t want to. Go outside. Anymore.

It’s a hard adjustment, surely, trying to manage everything remotely. But Andrea is nothing if excellent at her job and she manages to delegate responsibilities, coordinate meetings, move around the schedule, just so he doesn’t have to leave the house.

She comes by every day to hand-deliver her report. “Less prone to fall into the wrong hands,” she tells Mycroft, but he’s more than certain it’s because she doesn’t want him to be alone every single day.

“Things have been going well, it seems,” he tells her one night, looking over the files as they stand in the doorway. The night air whips past her and into him, chilling his skin and seeping into his bones. He tries to ignore it.

“They have,” she agrees. “Lady Smallwood’s office has been especially helpful.”

“Have they, now,” Mycroft says. He swallows hard and nods. “Very well.” He waits until she’s gone to throw the papers away and sit solemnly at the kitchen table.

Well. He really should have seen this coming. He hasn’t been in the office for who knows how long (he knows, of course he knows, he just doesn’t like to linger on it because when he does, he just spirals down and down _like you’re doing right now you bloody idiot_ ) and no matter how essential he’s made himself, there’s the fact that he made a mistake when he shouldn’t have, and now he must face the consequences.

He wouldn’t be surprised if they stopped consulting him altogether – who’d want a failure like him to weigh in on important matters of state when he couldn’t get something simple like family right.

He’s always been a failure. This is just the final nail in the coffin.

He doesn’t touch his phone at all the next day. It sits at his desk in the study as he wanders about, aimless, purposeless, meaningless. The tea he made in the morning is cold by the time he remembers to drink it, and he’s gone through a pack of cigarettes when he realizes he should’ve opened a window to air out the smell.

And then, Andrea’s there. She doesn’t bother knocking the door, just walks straight inside and into the kitchen where he’s sitting.

Mycroft looks up at her and blinks. “What happened?”

“I could ask you the same thing, sir,” she says. “We’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“Why?”

She tells him of all these things, all these important problems and some minor issues, things that were – _are_ his responsibility that, as it turned out, he neglected for an entire day.

“Oh,” Mycroft says, because there’s not much else he can think of saying – and _that_ is a problem, isn’t it? “I…” his voice gets stuck and he trails off, unable to say anymore.

Something shifts in Andrea’s face, as she scans the room. She looks back at him – Mycroft can only imagine what she sees, and whatever he’s imagining, it isn’t good – and then she sits down beside him and pulls out her phone. “Chinese or Indian?”

“Whatever you’d prefer,” Mycroft shrugs.

She nods. Their knees brush against each other on the small table and Mycroft has no idea how to tell her that he appreciates this and he really doesn’t want to be alone.

* * *

“Your parents have taken to calling _me_ now,” Andrea tells him one night.

They’re at the kitchen table, as usual, as has become some sort of ritual for them. She doesn’t come every day – only on weekends, only sometimes, never for long – but Mycroft cherishes every moment, for whatever it’s worth.

“I see,” Mycroft mumbles quietly. He takes a sip of his water and grimaces as it slides down his throat. He’d swallowed an ice cube. “And what do you tell them?”

Andrea shrugs. “I just say you’re busy.” She rips off a piece of naan and looks up at him. “Your mother asks me, every time, if there’s something you want to tell her.”

Mycroft opens his mouth and then closes it. He blinks a couple of times and yet – and yet he can’t bring himself to respond. There’s nothing he can think of. Absolutely nothing.

It’s when he reaches for the water again that he realizes his hands are shaking. Andrea leans over to put her hand on his shoulder and Mycroft wishes he could say something to her, something to show he doesn’t need her pity, her sorrow, her help.

He takes his fork with a steady hand and starts to eat some halwa as she changes the subject. _Better distraction than confrontation_ , he thinks, and then wonders when he decided that.

* * *

He receives a call from an unknown number one day. At first glance, he thinks it may be his mother using yet another tactic to try and get him to talk to her – but then he recognizes the number. And part of him isn’t sure if it’s any better.

Mycroft picks up the phone and takes a deep breath. “Lady Smallwood.”

He hears her chuckle slightly on the other end. “I told you, you can call me Alicia.”

“Very well,” he says, and inwardly curses himself for starting off in the wrong. He clears his throat and sits down. “What – what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she hums. He imagines her sitting in her office – no, at home, lounging on her sofa, a glass in one hand (sherry? wine? neither?) and the phone in the other. “Maybe you can come back to work and we can talk about it.”

“I – I am working,” Mycroft says. His fingers clench and he digs his nails into the palm of his hand. _Stop stuttering, stop stuttering._

“Technically, yes, but not at the office,” Alicia says. “When’s the last time you left the house?”

He closes his eyes and takes another breath. “I don’t need to answer that.”

“And that’s answer enough.” There’s some shuffling on the other end. “Your assistant has told me plenty. It’s high time you come back to work.” She pauses a moment. “We do still need you here, Mycroft.”

 _No, you don’t_. _I’m stupid. I’m useless. I can’t do anything right. You’d be better off without me. Please don’t make me do this. I can’t do it. I –_

He takes another breath and the words stick in his mouth. He feels like he’s going to throw up. “I…”

“I’ll send a car for you,” Alicia continues. “You can leave early if you want, whenever you want, but I’d appreciate it if you at least tried.”

“Okay,” Mycroft says. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. “I’ll be ready in the morning.”

“Good.” She sounds a little happier, a little more hopeful, but Mycroft can’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach as he sits down and lights a cigarette, listing to her go over the latest developments in South Korea.

* * *

He makes it until three o’clock before he has a panic attack.

It comes by surprise – he’s reading a report on a covert operation and he gets to the number of casualties and then – and then he can’t think. He can’t breathe. His hands are shaking and his chest hurts and it hurts _so much_ and he _can’t bloody breathe and can’t think and can’t – and can’t – and can’t –_

“Mycroft,” someone says, and he can’t tell who it is. “Mycroft, breathe.”

But he can’t – he _can’t –_

“It’s okay, you can do this. Breathe in for me, breathe in – just like that, good, now breathe out.” The voice speaks and Mycroft listens and soon the pain is gone and he can think again and he can breathe –

And then he remembers where he is.

The file’s in his lap, papers scattered around the floor, and Andrea is crouched beside him. Her hands are on his shoulder and the expression on her face would be enough to send him into yet another panic attack.

He says something – or maybe he doesn’t – and he grabs his bags and rushes out. He feels his face flush, the tip of his ears burning up in embarrassment. _Stupid, stupid, stupid –_

He’s almost out the door when he hears someone clear their throat. Alicia’s standing behind him, arms crossed, no hint of emotion anywhere, and for a split second, Mycroft thinks he’s going to be fired again.

“I think it’s high time for that drink, don’t you?” she asks.

 _No_ , Mycroft thinks. _No, I want to go home. I don’t want to – I just – I –_

He silently follows her back to her office.

He’s been there before, several times, under multiple pretenses, but nothing like this. His face is on fire and his mouth is dry and he just wants this over with. He sits down and stares at his hands and then Alicia is pressing a glass of water into them.

“That’ll have you feeling better than any other drink can,” Alicia tells him.

He takes a slow sip, then another, and searches for the right words. “If you’d prefer a letter of resignation –”

“I spoke to someone after my husband’s death.”

Mycroft looks up. Alicia’s gaze is averted, lost momentarily in her memories, before she speaks again. “It was a very difficult time for me, considering all that was happening both in my professional life and my personal one. But here I am now – fuller, more functional, and all the better for it.”

Mycroft raises a brow. “Are you – are you suggesting I seek _psychiatric_ _help_?” The venom in his words is unintentional but he can’t help it. Getting help would be admitting he needs it, which would only serve to prove he’s weak. And isn’t his weakness what got him into this trouble in the first place?

Alicia sighs. “Mycroft, you’ve been through much lately, and you haven’t given yourself time to recover.” She reaches into her desk and pulls out a card. “She’s very discreet – your reputation won’t suffer because of it, but there’s a chance it will without it.”

He takes the card with shaking hands. There’s so much he could say – so much he _should_ say, because what happened with – with Eurus, with Sherrinford, with those dead, with Doctor Watson’s life on the line, with his _own_ life on the line – that was all his own fault and he should repent for it. Shouldn’t he?

“Mycroft,” Alicia says. She lets out a sigh and her expression softens. “I’m asking you as a friend – please take care of yourself.”

He takes another sip of water, slowly, and doesn’t say anything else on the matter.

* * *

The first session – and the only session – with the therapist doesn’t go well. Ms. Hunter – or Violet, as she prefers Mycroft call her – wants him to open up to her. “At your own pace, of course,” she says, but the problem is that he can’t.

Not won’t – _can’t_.

As much as he wants to indulge Alicia’s request – as much as he himself wants to stop feeling like this – every time he tries to tell her about his past, his family, his work, _anything_ , his throat seizes up and his mouth dries and he can’t say anything.

They end the session half an hour early and Mycroft leaves in a frustrated huff. _Stupid, stupid, idiot, idiot – why couldn’t you just tell her what’s wrong? Just open that fat stupid mouth of yours and just bloody_ tell her _! You’re so stupid, so stupid – can’t even get help right. Idiot, idiot, idiot –_

“How did it go?” Andrea asks, once he’s in the car.

Mycroft shakes his head, fists clenched and arms by his sides.

She sighs and leans over, gently patting his knee. “It’s not easy, but it gets easier. As time goes on, it gets easier.”

“I’m not doing it again.” He sees her open her mouth, a complaint or a plea on the tip of her tongue, but he shakes his head and the rest of the ride goes by in silence.

* * *

When Lestrade shows up at his doorstep, the first thing Mycroft does is slam the door in his face. The second thing he does is open it back up again, ears bright red. “My – my apologies, detective. This is an old home and the functionality is not as it used to be, especially on a windy afternoon such as this one.”

 _The wind – did I just blame my sudden burst of anxiety on the bloody_ wind _? Good Lord, Andrea and Alicia are going to have a field day with this…_

Lestrade, to his credit, laughs. “I get it – got this window in my flat that if you open it, it’ll blow open the bedroom door. And I told you, call me Greg when we’re not working.”

“I know,” Mycroft says. His first instinct is to clench his fists but Andrea forbade him from doing that so instead he asks, “What brings you here, Gregory?”

“Sherlock said I should,” he says with a shrug. “And your assistant said I should bring over some food, so…” he gestures to the bag of takeout. “Mind if I come in?”

Mycroft nods and steps aside. _Oh, how the tides have turned, from those days where I’d ask you to check up on Sherlock, to where Sherlock asks you to check up on me._ “You can set it on the kitchen table.”

They make small talk while they eat, meaningless and distracting, when Mycroft finally asks, “How is Sherlock doing?”

“A lot better than before. It’s almost back to normal, like he and John are attached at the hip and nothing in the world could divide them.” He swallows down a bite of sweet and sour chicken. “He’d like you to know, though, that he doesn’t appreciate you letting his texts go unanswered.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, a smile tugging on the edge of his lips. “Well, that’s nothing unexpected. What about Doctor Watson’s daughter – is she settling in nicely at Baker Street?”

Greg nods. “Rosie’s a right rascal, just like her parents – always messing with my casefiles, trying to get me to play with her instead of doing work. Though, unlike Sherlock, _she_ remembered my name from the get-go.”

“Does she now?” Mycroft has no idea if this is advanced for her age or not, but he tries to sound impressed either way.

“Well, she calls me ‘Gag’ but that’s closer than Sherlock’s gotten until he finally drilled it into his head.”

Mycroft laughs – more of a quiet chuckle and a small smile, really, but it’s the first one of its kind in a long while and he treasures it long after the moment has passed.

Greg helps him put away the dishes and Mycroft walks him to the door. “Mind if I come over sometime again?” he asks as he straightens his coat. “Sherlock wanted me to come by often and admittedly, since that whole clusterfuck with Milverton, I’ve been slacking on this.”

Mycroft nods. “It’s fine by me.”

“Good.” He shoots him a smile and heads out the door, and Mycroft’s left smiling to himself by a closed door.

It’s nice to smile again.

* * *

He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Andrea leans forward and gently grabs them.

“You’ll be fine, sir,” she says, adding the last word almost as an afterthought.

“I wish he wasn’t forcing me to do this,” Mycroft grumbles.

“Sherlock asked you to come by – you can’t just say no to him, now can you?” She opens the door and gestures him out. “Go on. We’ll be back in half an hour. Try not to blow anything up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He walks up the steps, one hand on his umbrella and the other flexing and unflexing at the slightest tremor, until he’s finally at the top of the stairs and knocks.

When he sees Sherlock open the door, he forgets everything he was supposed to say. He blinks a couple of times and clears his throat. “Sherlock. H-hello.” _Why did you stutter, why did you bloody –_

“Oh, good,” Sherlock says, and suddenly Rosamund is thrust into Mycroft’s arms. “Hold her for a moment. I need to warm up her bottle but she’s being very fussy today. Aren’t you, Rosie?” He taps her nose and she lets out a giggle.

Mycroft follows Sherlock inside, carefully balancing Rosamund on his arms and trying to look only half as uncomfortable as he feels. “I – well – isn’t Doctor Watson here?”

“John’s out buying groceries. We alternate.” He pokes his head out of the kitchen. “We’ve also been using your card.”

“Of course,” Mycroft mumbles quietly. He bounces Rosamund a little, adjusting her position, and as much as he tries not to, he inevitably starts thinking of Eurus. He cared for her. He loved her. He did everything he could for her. And yet somehow – and yet somehow it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t doing enough. He could’ve tried harder. He _should’ve_ tried harder. Why is he like this? Why is he such an idiot – a stupid, fat, worthless, idiot son and terrible brother who couldn’t be there for his sister? Stupid, _stupid –_

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Rosamund pats his face and he feels her hands turn wet. She tilts her head curiously. “Waa?”

“You cry plenty of times, why’re you surprised someone else cries too, hmm?” Sherlock picks Rosamund out of Mycroft’s arms and starts feeding her the bottle. “She calls it ‘waa’ because that’s the sound she makes when she’s crying.”

Mycroft wipes his eyes with his palms. His hands are shaking. “Per – perhaps I should…”

“Stay for the remainder of the half-hour?” Sherlock finishes. “Yes, I agree. Just sit down somewhere, I’ll get you tea.” He heads into the kitchen and Mycroft sits down.

By the end of his visit, his hands have stopped shaking, and he’s actually smiling when he gets back in the car.

“Told you it would go well,” Andrea hums.

Mycroft chuckles. “As always, my dear, you were right.”

* * *

“You haven’t spoken to your mother yet, have you?” Alicia asks. “Not even after Sherlock assured you she wouldn’t blame you again?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I know Sherlock’s intentions are pure but…” he pauses and licks his lips. “But Mummy doesn’t have to tell him the truth. She might still harbor some resentment towards me, for all that’s happened.”

“But none of this was your fault, though. Her actions were entirely her own.” She shrugs and sips at her drink. “Well, Rudy didn’t help, but back then, there was nothing you could’ve done.”

“But I should’ve stopped her.” He runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I should’ve known what she was going to do, and I should’ve prevented it. I should’ve – I should’ve done more. I’m her brother, I should’ve…”

“Mycroft,” Alicia says, face stern and set. She leans over and looks him in the eyes. “You can’t control everything.”

Mycroft sighs. “I _know_ that, I –”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think you do. Because if you did, you’d understand that you’re not single-handedly to blame for all that’s happened. You’d understand that family relations are completely different from work relations – it’s all about emotion in the latter, and it’s a variable sum game. You’ve made mistakes before and you’ll make mistakes again, and sometimes you’ll get things right and sometimes you’ll get things wrong. But it doesn’t mean everything is your own fault.”

He looks back into his lap and thinks about what his mother said, about all that Eurus said. If it isn’t his fault, then why… then why… He tries to talk but all that comes out is a quiet stammer.

“Don’t call her,” Alicia says. “You don’t have to talk to her.”

Mycroft swallows hard and says, “Okay.”

* * *

Dinner with Greg has become as ritualistic as with Andrea – one a week, never on the same day, and not for very long. Conversation isn’t as dull as Mycroft had feared, nor is it all about work or Sherlock. It’s just about regular old things – goldfish things – and it’s a nice reprieve from everything.

“You watch a lot of films?” Greg asks one night over some Italian.

Mycroft hesitates a brief moment. “Yes.”

Greg raises a brow. “Wasn’t actually expecting that. What kinds?”

“Different kinds.”

“Another one of your patented vague answers, huh?” he laughs. “Well, as much as I like talking with you like this, maybe next time we can watch a movie while we eat? That way, you won’t have to keep coming up with answers to all of my questions.”

Mycroft smiles a little. Sure, he hasn’t been in that part of the house for a while, but Andrea has been trying to get him to push his boundaries a little, and what better way than this? “Okay,” he says.

Greg grins and Mycroft smiles a little more.

The movie he picks – something American with lots of curing and even more explosions – is, well, it isn’t very good, but Mycroft suffers through it anyway. At the (blessed) end, he turns to Greg and says, “That was… interesting.”

“You didn’t like it,” Greg says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Mycroft sighs. “It – it was, admittedly, outside my usual preferences, but I enjoyed the commentary you provided and I would not be averse to watching the sequel.”

Greg looks him over and smiles. “It’s all right – you can pick out the movie for next week.”

“Oh, thank _goodness_ ,” Mycroft sighs and Greg laughs even harder.

* * *

His fingers shake while he goes through his contacts and he nearly backs out of the whole thing altogether when Andrea gives him a glare and forces him to press call.

He hopes that it’ll go straight to voicemail but, alas, there’s a click and, “Hello?”

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft hums, as casually as he can.

“Oh, hey, Mycroft. Is, uh something wrong?” Mycroft can imagine him sitting up from his chair, straightening out his shoulders, prepared to run out the door the moment he needs to. It’s admirable, really.

“No, nothing’s wrong.” He clears his throat. “I, well, I…” he takes a deep breath. “I never apologized.”

“Excuse me?” The confusion is evident in his tone, and Mycroft realizes he’ll have to explain a little more. He should’ve seen that coming.

“For the things I said,” he explains. “When we were… in that situation, and I was trying to – trying to –” The words cling to his throat and he’s about to try again when John cuts him off.

“Mycroft, it’s all right,” he says. “Really, I get why you had to do all of that.”

“I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

“I know.” There’s a small pause. “Thank you, for apologizing.”

“It’s no problem.”

There’s another pause, and then John says, “Actually, we’re having a party for Rosie’s birthday in a couple of weeks – just us and a couple of friends – and I think you should come to.”

Mycroft blinks, then blinks again. “Why – why, I’d be honored to, Doctor. Thank you.”

“Don’t you think you should maybe start calling me John?”

“I suppose I should,” he chuckles quietly. “Thank you, John.”

“It’s fine, honest. We were going to invite you anyway – Rosie can’t stop talking about you.”

“Really?” Mycroft says, and long after they’ve hung up, he’s still smiling.

He can tell Andrea is resisting the urge to tell him ‘I told you so’.

* * *

“I’m ready to come back full-time,” Mycroft says. He drains his glass of water and manages a slight smile.

“Really?” Alicia raises a brow. “Back to your old self, then?”

He stops and considers it for a moment, shifting the glass from one hand to the next. “It’s not that,” he says slowly. “It’s easier to push my feelings aside, for the work – it always has been – but now… now it’s also easier to pull those emotions back and… and feel them, without feeling overwhelmed.”

Alicia smiles. “That sounds like a nice improvement.”

“It is,” Mycroft says. “It really is.”

* * *

“You look a lot better now,” Greg tells him one night during dinner.

“Really?” Mycroft asks.

He nods. “Yeah. Before you looked… you didn’t look healthy. But you look better now. Happier even.” He clears his throat. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Really,” Mycroft hums, corner of his mouth quirking. “That’s good to hear.”

That night, he stops Greg by the door, before he leaves, and says, “We should have dinner.”

“We do have dinner,” Greg says.

“Not here,” Mycroft amends. “Somewhere else. A real restaurant, perhaps. Accompanied by a trip to the cinema, if time allows.” Which it would, of course, for what’s the point of his job if he can’t do something like that?

Greg crosses his arms and Mycroft can almost see the cogs in his head turning, face shifting imperceptibly as he comes to his conclusions. “Yeah,” he says, and then smiles. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Looking forward to it.” He shoots him a grin as he leaves, and it’s long after that when Mycroft realizes his hands hadn’t shaken the entire time.

* * *

He arrives to the party half an hour earlier than he should have. Mrs. Hudson is busy baking the cake in her flat, and he hears commotion from the kitchens in 221b – he could only imagine what sort of horrors they were cooking up there, and could only hope they’d be edible horrors, at the very least.

Rosamund’s sitting by herself in a corner, surrounded by her own toys, and Mycroft sets his umbrella aside and goes over to join. “Do you mind if I play with you?” he asks, polite as ever, folding his legs under and sitting down beside her.

She lets out some unintelligible noises and hands him a couple of blocks. He’s fairly sure this is a good thing, and he smiles back at her as they start building together.

* * *

Ice melts. But water isn’t all that bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Medicine" by Daughter.


End file.
